Debuggen'
by DemonFox38
Summary: Every machine is susceptible to errors. This one caused three hundred and sixty deaths.


**Debuggen'**

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><p>Sanity, for the Engineer, lay cradled in the boughs of repetition. Every night was built of the same activities. Performing tune-ups on vehicles, emptying his guns, counting shells, the occasional gambling and inevitable losing of bets to the Soldier and the Scout over the next day's baseball game, checking up on the computer network—so on and on. He, in a way, became his own machine. If everything clicked and moved in a mechanical fashion, he would be one happy camper. Everything would cycle, the script would run out, and he would go to bed content.<p>

Perhaps that was why he didn't notice the problem in the first place.

It started with a little buzz in his ear, no more so than radio static. Just a routine action the servers were taking, transistors firing up, tape whirling in wheels, the printer firing off a new line of data. Maybe that was why it didn't bother him—the machine was being, for the lack of a better word, mechanical. Every sixty seconds, it would kick on, buzz, and shut back off.

The Engineer rubbed his forehead, tracing a hole long since repaired. Darned Spy. If it weren't for this machine, he'd still have a gap in his head that a child could stick his grubby hands through. The memory lingered, heat and lead severing synapses so fast that it almost didn't hurt. Almost. The thought that he would be dead in any other circumstance made him sick. Thank God for this machine.

Whirr. Click. Buzz.

He sniffled, brushing away the memory for a moment. It smelt hot. Not like hot electronics hot, either. Like something trapped under the burner. It couldn't be the Pyro, could it? He'd—she'd—it'd never hung around the server room before. The engineer traced the smell to the eighth compartment in the row of servers. He pulled the cover back.

Whirr. Click. Buzz.

There was a set of white, tiny wings. A moth had gotten trapped in the components. The Engineer pulled it out, body mostly fried from the heat inside the cabinet. Dammit. It looked like the bug had fried out some of the machinery. He pulled the wrecked component out. A punch-card reader. He opened the reader up, finding a damaged card within it.

Whirr. Click. Buzz.

The Engineer lifted his head, eyes wide. It was, more or less, a diagnostic sample. The picture of a person in good health. The reason the regenerating servers worked. It would take this card, copy its instructions, and recreate the person's body in perfect form, placing them back in a safe area with an X, Y, and Z coordinate. Naturally, this included all of BLU's safe houses and the main complex.

Whirr. Click. Buzz.

It was still running. The servers had the memory of this card active, and it was using it as a template. A defective template. Blood burned under the Engineer's skin, his mind ablaze with indignation. It was creating somebody over and over again, only to have them require a new revival—a constant process of death. He pitched the card aside, bolting to the printed data running in spirals down to the floor. How hadn't he noticed this? He stopped for a moment, reading what the machine told him. The number seven. A series of X Y Z coordinates. A timestamp for the activity.

Whirr. Click. Buzz.

The Engineer counted off in his head. One , two, three—no, wait. Computers started at zero. He started again, ticking off his fingers as he though. Zero, one, two—oh God. He didn't even have to count. He knew who could have gone hours without being seen after a match. With a flustered hiss, he sped out of the server room, slamming and bolting it shut behind him. He ran to the team garage, picking up his toolbox, a medkit, and a handful of scrap metal.

The desert night was cold and rough. Dust stung his face. He could have done without the wind biting at his exposed skin. Thank God for his goggles. He pushed through the turbulence, rushing to the west end of the BLU encampment. With a cough, he expelled the sand from his lungs. Time was dragging out into seconds, and he flinched every time he thought a minute had gone by. This had to be hell. Sixty revives an hour, six hours since the last match—

Blood. A thin trail started nearly twenty feet from the Engineer's destination. Bless his soul, he'd tried to get help. Always died in the same place, his body gone within seconds. Always regenerated back in his van. A Sisyphean toil. His skull throbbed, the pain from today's skirmish fresh in his head. Three hundred and sixty times. That had to have been hellish.

The Engineer stepped under the awning of the camper. The door was ajar. Trickling down the ladder into the camper was a thick, congealed mix of sand and blood. He could taste iron and copper in the back of his throat. His stomach churned in anguish, prepared to expel the contents of tonight's supper. He knew it was going to be a nightmare.

One time, back at home, there had been a flash flood. The sewer had backed up into the basement, contaminated water floating about an inch off the ground. That disgusting memory of tromping around in filth was now replaced with the sensation of stepping into a flood of mostly tacky blood. The ratty carpet stuck to his heels, sinking him further into the gore. Dozens of gallons of it oozed around his ankles and out the door.

"Sniper?" God, that sounded stupid. Ask the perpetually dying man to talk.

There was a ratty cough from the left side of the camper. The Sniper was lying on his stomach, hacking blood into the fold-out sofa. His back was ripped open, torn apart by a savage slash to his spine. A thin line of scarlet trickled down his nose and cheek. He kept his right arm tucked under his body, trying to keep a third injury from spilling his guts out.

In a sick twist of thoughts, the Engineer wondered if he should have gotten the Medic just to see this.

The Sniper's head jolted up with the same fear and ferocity of a hunted beast. He smiled, blood gushing down his lips. "Here…so…soon?" Another spasm of pain wracked through him, followed by another wet cough. He buried his nose into the couch, fresh blood smearing across the tip.

"Don't go wasten' yer breath." The Engineer was quick to throw down his tools, cracking open the medkit. Several teal vials of fluid jingled at his touch. He cracked open the first bottle, pouring it into the Sniper's back. The Sniper jumped at the cold sensation. The gunk had an icy burn to it, but the numbing feeling and juniper smell that came with it redeemed the initial pain. The Engineer could feel it freeze against the tips of his fingers. "There was a malfunction with the regenerator. It took a bad copy of ya and made it yer default state."

The Sniper laughed, gripping tighter to his sides. "How?"

"Darn bug got caught in the server." He flipped the Sniper over, dumping another bottle of gel into the wound on his stomach. The Engineer rolled most of the gunk around with the palm of his left hand, pushing it into the jagged slash. With a soft hiss, flesh sealed back up. He took one more bottle and smeared the contents onto his right, gloved hand. He pressed his thumb into the Sniper's face, wiping the last injury. The Sniper's expression lost tension, and for a moment, the Engineer feared that he was going to be recycled again. He sighed when he realized that it wasn't the Sniper dying, but just unwinding.

The Sniper nearly went under then and there. That wouldn't do. The Engineer tapped the side of his face, keeping him from going completely under. "Ain't time for that. Right now, we've gotta git ya a new template." The Engineer extended his hand. "Kin ya walk? I could build ya a dispenser, if ya need it."

The Sniper's grasp was firm. It wasn't as strong as the Engineer first remembered it, but it was okay. He pulled the Sniper off his sofa. Long legs were weak, but he kept himself upright without too much support. Never the less, the Engineer loaned his shoulder, and the Sniper took it. The height difference between the Engineer and his teammates always made him feel miniscule, especially now with the Sniper hunched over.

"Let's go, mate." The Sniped smirked, eyes almost disappearing under heavy lids. "I think I can make it now."

They pushed through the front door. The raging wind felt like nothing now. The Engineer led the way with a new vigor, half dragging the Sniper behind him. He hoped to God that nobody from Team RED was stalking them. His skin chilled at the thought. The Spy had the better of both of them today. All it would take was one slice. One shot.

He just had to get the Sniper to the garage. He covered his mouth with his shirt sleeve, pulling the Sniper through the last part of the trek. The Sniper picked up after a few moments, barking with laughter at the sprint. The Engineer shook his head—too much blood loss. An enormous wash of adrenaline hit him as he entered the garage. He flung the Sniper to the ground, pulling the door shut behind them. With his own hoarse chuckle, he slid to the floor. That was unnecessarily terrifying.

The Sniper reached up and locked the garage door. "Just in case?"

"Yep." The Engineer patted the Sniper's leg. "Come on. Let's git ya that template."

They made their way to the server room at a significantly slow clip than their mad dash outside. The Engineer noticed that the Sniper had lost his burst of energy. The realization—the recollection of his trauma—it was starting to hit him. He held a hand to his stomach, wincing as they walked along. There had been so much pain. After a while, it had all washed together. But now that he had the time to contemplate it, each event cycled in his head. His face went stoic and cold.

"Sniper."

He jumped when the Engineer touched his shoulder. The Engineer swallowed, a hard lump in his throat. "I'm sorry this happened ta ya. I won't let it happen again."

"Let's get it fixed, yeah?" The Sniper asked. He was doing his best to suppress what had just happened, but the pain was there, etched in the wrinkles under his eyes and the wound across his face. "Whadda we gotta do?"

"This'll be real easy. Takes about a minute." The Engineer unlocked the server room. He led the Sniper inside, sitting him down against a row of humming machines. He went back to the damaged server and reloaded the card reader with a fresh, blank card. Sliding it back into place, he was pleased to hear it join the chorus of unanimous humming. Within a minute, there was a series of clacking and punching.

Whirr. Click. Buzz.

The Engineer went to the printer and studied the new information. He sighed. "Well, outside of a few new scars, I'd say this took well."

The Sniper raised an eyebrow. "That's it?" He shook his head, "Why'd ya need to bring me out here?"

"I wanted ta make sure ya were alive and relatively healthy when I reset yer template." The Engineer leant the Sniper a hand again. He began poking at the Australian's chest. "Now, I think that ya've spent enough time in that stinken' van. Ya ain't gonna get that thing cleaned up tonight. Might as well go on down to the Medic's quarters, let him give you the once over, and catch some zees on a cot."

"Of all the places I'd rather not go tonight, it's ta that mad quack's digs." He rubbed his back, the cold medicine still tingling. "I…guess ya won't be taken' no for an answer."

"Not at the moment." The Engineer pulled the Sniper out the door and down the hall. "This way, if ya please."

There were a few quiet moments of silence where neither man wanted to talk. The Sniper had his head down, lost in dark thoughts. The Engineer kept to himself, not sure what to say. There was only one thing he could think of, in the meantime. He ran through a checklist in his head, re-evaluating his routine. He'd need to add a few new tasks to his routine. Daily data back-ups and a nightly roll call, for starters. Maybe purchase a few fly traps to put in the server room. There had to be something better than punch cards that they could use.

"Dell?"

The Engineer almost stopped, startled by the awkwardly meek, personal address. "Yeah, Mister Mundy?"

There was that imperfect, half crooked smile again. "Thank ya."

Dell patted Mister Mundy on the back. "Yer welcome, ya gangly varmint."

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><p>"It's called a floppy disk."<p>

The Administrator gave the Engineer a piercing glare. "That's obscene."

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><p><span>Author's Note<span>:

Chrissakes. I wrote this in about an hour and a half. I thought I was done with this, but I guess old habits die hard. He'll, it's probably been over a year since I posted anything.

Sorry if anything got wonky. I'm just starting to get into the TF2 universe, and my knowledge of 1960s computers is strikingly lacking, considering computer science is my Bachelor's degree.


End file.
